Briar King

by Keyes, Greg

  But Muriele was staring past him. The greffyn, which had been just behind them, was nowhere to be seen.

  Then Muriele doubled over, the muscles of her legs cramping and fever burning in her veins. She collapsed next to her daughter and reached to touch her, to comfort her, but Fastia’s skin was cool and her heart beat no more.

  Unable to do anything more, Muriele lay, and wept, and waited for death.

  Neil swayed against the door frame, his vision blurring. Where had the monster gone? It had been only footsteps behind them. Now it had vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.

  Not for the first time that night, he began to wonder if he had lost his sanity. His legs were shaking, and a hot, sick feeling twisted in him.

  “I’ve failed, Father,” he whispered. “I should have heeded the warnings. I never belonged here.”

  In Liery he’d known who he was. In Liery he’d never failed in anything. Here, he’d made one misstep after another, each worse than the last. His feelings for Fastia—feelings no true knight ever would have had—had cauterized his conviction and drained his confidence. He flinched, he hesitated, and now that lack of surety had killed Sir James and Elseny. He had failed the queen, his sworn charge, and even now a part of him knew he would do it again if it would save Fastia. Despite his vow, despite the wrongness of it.

  He didn’t deserve the breath in his lungs.

  An arrow chirruped against stone, and he realized he had all but forgotten his mortal antagonists. Yet another failure. Cursing, he took what cover he could behind the gate frame, trying to see who was without. He made out two, perhaps three of the Sefry archers on the causeway. Another had come through the gate from the inner keep and was under cover of the now open door.

  Striding toward him was the armored figure of the man who had once been Vargus Farre. When he saw Sir Neil he bellowed and increased his pace, drawing the greatsword from his back.

  Neil, barely able to stand, grimly summoned all of his strength and stepped out to meet him.

  “You aren’t Ashern,” the false knight said, when he drew near.

  “I don’t know who Ashern is,” Neil replied. “But know this: I am the hand of death.”

  “You are sickened from the gaze of the greffyn. You are weary from flight and battle. Lay down your arms and accept the inevitable.”

  To Neil’s horror, it sounded tempting. Lay down his arms, let the enemy strike off his head. At least he’d make no more mistakes, then. At least he would be at peace.

  But no. He should die like a man, however little that might mean. “When the sea falls into the sky, that will be,” he said.

  “That day may not be as far off as you might think,” Farre replied. He lifted his sword and struck.

  Neil parried the blow but staggered beneath it. He replied with a cut to the shoulder joint, but missed, his weapon clanging harmlessly on steel. Farre swung again, and this time Neil managed to duck. The blade missed, but he went dizzy, and before he could recover, a reversed blow caught him on the back. The chain mail hauberk took the edge with a snapping of rings, but it absorbed none of the force of the attack, which drove him down to his knees. Sir Vargus kicked him under the chin, but Neil manage to wrap one arm around the armored leg and stab upward with Crow.

  It was not a strong jab, and again Crow screeched in frustration as it scored across armor but did not harm the man.

  The hilt came hammering down toward his head, but Neil twisted so it took him in the shoulder instead. Agony ruptured along his clavicle, which he distantly reckoned was probably shattered.

  Farre kicked him again, and he went back like a rag doll into the horz. The knight stepped through after him. The saints, it seemed, did not care what might become of Neil MeqVren.

  Spitting blood, Neil climbed slowly to his feet, watching the changeling come forward through a red fog of pain. He seemed to come very slowly, as if each blink of the eye took days. In a strange rush, Neil heard again the sound of the sea and tasted cold salt on his lips. For an instant, he was there on the strand again with his father, the older man’s hand gripping his.

  We goin’to lose, Fah? We goin’to die?

  And then, so plain it might have been spoken in his ear, he heard a voice.

  You’re a MeqVren, boy. Damn you, but don’t lie down yet.

  Neil straightened and took a breath. It felt like a burning wind.

  Muriele managed to raise her head when she heard the song. It started weakly, barely a whisper, but it was in the language of her childhood.

  “Mi, Etier meuf, eyoiz’etiern rem

  Crach-toi, frennz, mi viveut-toi dein.”

  It was Sir Neil, standing before Vargus Farre.

  “Me, my father, my fathers before

  Croak, ye ravens, I’ll feed ye soon.”

  He sang, though it seemed impossible he could even stand. Sir Vargus swung a great two-handed blow at the smaller man. Almost laconically, Sir Neil parried the weapon, and his voice grew louder.

  “We keep our honor on sea and shore

  Croak, ye ravens, I’ll feed ye soon.”

  Suddenly Sir Neil’s sword lashed out, all out of keeping with his demeanor, and there came a din of metal. Vargus staggered back from the stroke, but Sir Neil followed it up with another that seemed to come from nowhere. He was shouting, now.

  “With spear and sword and board of war,

  Croak, ye ravens, I’ll feed ye soon.”

  Sir Vargus rallied and cut hard into Neil’s side. Chain mail snapped with bright ringing and blood spurted, but the young knight didn’t seem to notice. He kept chanting, beating a rhythm of terrible blows that rang against plate mail.

  “To fight and die is why we’re born.

  Croak, ye ravens, I’ll feed ye soon.”

  Neil was shrieking now, and Muriele understood. He had a rage on him. Vargus Farre never got in another blow. He stumbled and fell beneath the onslaught, and Neil pounded him with his blade as if it were a club, shearing sparks from the armor. He chopped through the joint of Farre’s arm at the elbow; he crushed in his helm. Long after there was no motion, he hacked into the steel-clad corpse, screaming the death song of his Skernish fathers. And when he finally stood and his eyes turned to her, she thought she had never seen a more terrifying sight.

  “The gates are open,” Stephen murmured, as they rode over the succession of drawbridges that led to Cal Azroth.

  “I reckon I can see that,” Aspar grunted. “Quiet a moment, and listen.”

  Stephen nodded, closing his eyes. The only sound Aspar could make out was his own breath and the labored panting of the horses. Winna was a welcome weight against his back, and a fear, as well. He had her back. He couldn’t lose her again.

  But Fend was here. He could smell him.

  “I hear steel meeting steel,” Stephen said, after a moment. “And someone singing, in Lierish, I think. That aside, it’s quiet.”

  “Fend is quiet,” Aspar murmured. A wind blew from Cal Azroth, and autumn was on it. “You’ll both stay here and wait for me.”

  “We’ll do nothing of the kind,” Winna replied.

  “There’ll be fighting,” Aspar said. “You’ll hinder me.”

  “You need Stephen’s ears and my sense,” Winna replied evenly. “We’ve both saved your skin in the past, Aspar White. There’s nothing to say it won’t need doing again.”

  Aspar was figuring a reply to that when Stephen made an odd sound.

  “What is it?” Aspar asked.

  “You don’t hear it?”

  “Ney. I’ve only the ordinary sort of ears.”

  “The blasting of the horn. It’s returning.”

  “Maybe another horn.”

  “No,” Stephen said. “The same.”

  “An echo? That makes no sense,” Aspar said.

  “No,” Stephen said. “It does. He’s coming. The Briar King is answering the call, and it’s coming back with him.” Stephen’s eyes held fear, but his voice was steady. “I thin
k we’d best hurry, Holter. There’s more at risk here than a queen.”

  “Wait and maunt a moment,” Aspar protested. “Fend and his Sefry are in there, waiting to murder whoever comes through that gate. We’ll go deliberately and cautious or not at all.”

  Stephen nodded as if he understood. The next instant he gave Angel a hard kick and the beast was flying toward the open gate.

  “Grim eat you and sceat you out,” Aspar snarled. But he gave Ogre the flank and followed.

  He clattered into the corpse-strewn keep just behind Stephen. As he’d fully expected, he immediately heard the snap of bowstrings. He wheeled Ogre into cover behind the gate and leapt off the horse.

  “Get down,” he commanded Winna. “Ogre will fight best protecting you. Stay under cover here.”

  “Yah,” Winna breathed. She squeezed his hand. “Watch my love for me,” she said.

  “Yah. I’ll do that.”

  He took out his bow and darted from beneath the door, painfully aware that he’d recovered only five arrows intact from his last skirmish. He’d gone scarce ten yards when a shaft hissed down from above and cracked against the courtyard stone. Aspar turned coolly, saw the shadow on the wall above, and took a full breath to aim. His shaft leapt starward at the same moment a second dart skinned along his arm. He didn’t wait to see what happened, for he knew he’d hit.

  Instead he turned and ran after Stephen, who was already in considerable trouble. Angel had taken a shaft in the flank and thrown the boy. He was trying to get up, but it was a miracle he hadn’t yet been skewered, for arrows were skittering on the stone around him. Aspar found the source of some of those and hit the archer with his next arrow. It was a hard shot, and he could tell he hadn’t pierced anything vital, but the man stopped shooting for the time being.

  The rest of the killers were taking cover behind a second gate. Aspar counted five or six, and he could hear someone fighting on the other side, as well.

  “Get some cover!” he shouted to Stephen, sending the Sefry ducking with another dart. He had only three shafts remaining, so he needed to close the distance. He paced toward the door, another dart on his string. It was easier than he thought, for the archers were plainly distracted by the ruckus Aspar couldn’t see.

  One peeped out, though, and Aspar gave him cause to regret it. He noticed Stephen had done what he’d told him to do, and was flat against the same wall as the gate. He also noticed Stephen was pointing at something behind Aspar.

  “Holter!” the boy shouted.

  Aspar didn’t question, he just swung and stepped hard to the right, finding himself nearly face to face with Fend. The Sefry had a knife in either hand, and an expression half-turned between glee and fury. Aspar raised the bow in defense, but he was far too close to shoot, and Fend’s knives were lightning, flashing toward him.

  Aspar blocked with the bow as best he could, but the Se-fry’s right-hand blade darted past the wood and drew blood on his forearm. Aspar managed a return blow with the bow; it didn’t do Fend any harm, but it gave the holter space to draw out his dirk and ax.

  Warier now, Fend circled, feinting with his shoulders. As-par turned with him, weapons ready.

  “You’re getting old, Asp,” Fend commented. “Slow. There’s no challenge in this now.”

  “That why you came at me from behind?” Aspar asked.

  “Oh, I would have let you see me before you died. So you’d know.” He glanced toward Winna. “Pretty little piece of meat,” he allowed. “Almost as sweet as Qerla. Probably as faithful, too.”

  Aspar grinned coldly. “I think I’ll have your other eye, Fend.”

  “I doubt that, old man. But you’re welcome to try for it.”

  Aspar’s fury was so deep and complete that he felt glacially calm. He heard a little chuckle bubble from between his lips and was surprised.

  “What’s that?” Fend asked.

  “You. Trying to provoke me, like a frightened little boy.”

  “I’m just enjoying myself,” Fend said. “It’s not so much—”

  He didn’t finish his sentence, but instead bounded forward. Aspar had noticed him drawing his rear leg up as they spoke. He caught the right-hand dagger with his own dirk and cut at the other wrist with his ax. He got a little of it and sent flecks of blood into the night, but Fend was nothing if not quick, and the cut wasn’t deep.

  The Sefry bounced fractionally out of range and then back in, slashing with his right and keeping the left back. Aspar let him come, fading from the blow and kicking sharply at Fend’s forward ankle. He made solid contact, and his opponent lost balance. Aspar followed up, but rather than trying to recover, Fend went down tumbling. When he came back to his feet, he had only one knife.

  Aspar thought that was good until he realized the hilt of the other was jutting out of his leg.

  “Your aim is off,” Aspar said, reaching down and yanking the weapon out. It hurt, that, but the muscle on the front of the thigh was pretty forgiving. It probably wouldn’t even bleed much. He tucked the dagger in his belt and closed on Fend again.

  Fend, still looking confident, began a light-footed dance around Aspar. The holter turned, using slower footwork. When Fend came again, his left hand caught at Aspar’s ax wrist, and Aspar let him think he was slow enough to be caught. As soon as the finger touched him, however, he suddenly swung away, avoiding a thrust toward his heart, and lashed with the ax. He made it in deep, digging a gouge into Fend’s shoulder and feeling bone crunch. The Sefry gasped and dropped back, his eye widening in amazement.

  “Yah, I reckon I’ll kill you today, Fend,” Aspar said. “You had your chance when you threw your knife, and you missed it.” He started forward, still cautious.

  They closed again, but there was something desperate in the way the Sefry fought now, something worried. It was fast and close, and when they parted once more, each had several new wounds. Aspar’s were all shallow, but Fend had a hole in his ribs. Not deep enough to kill him anytime soon, but it probably hurt.

  “Why Qerla, Fend?” Aspar asked. “Why did you kill her? I’ve never known that.”

  Fend grinned, showing his teeth. “You don’t know? That’s delightful.” He coughed. “You’re a lucky old man, you know that? Always lucky.”

  “Yah. Very lucky. Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “Not, I think.”

  Aspar shrugged. “That’s the only thing I wanted from you besides your life. I suppose I’ll settle.”

  “I have a little luck of my own,” Fend said. “Look to your lady.”

  It was an old trick, and Aspar didn’t fall for it until Winna screamed. Then Aspar wheeled and dropped, knowing no matter what was happening his enemy wouldn’t miss the opportunity. Fend’s second knife whispered over his head, but Aspar didn’t care about him anymore. The greffyn had just entered through the gate. It was moving toward Winna, and Ogre was stamping, ready to meet it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE ARRIVAL

  AS ANNE WATCHED THE KNIGHT advance on Cazio, something seemed to dim in her even as the purple moonlight seemed to brighten, as if the darkness the moon was displacing sought a hiding place in her soul.

  “He’s going to kill Cazio,” Austra said. “Then he’ll kill us.”

  “Yes,” Anne said. She realized that they should have been running while Cazio fought, but something had stayed her feet. There might still be time; the Vitellian was certainly losing the battle, but he might last a little longer, long enough for them to escape.

  But no, she was horsewoman enough to know how quickly she and Austra would be run down. Their first hope had been in an unnoticed escape, and their second had been Cazio. Neither had proved out. She eyed the knight’s horse specula-tively—but no, a warhorse would never let her mount. It would probably strike her dead if she drew near enough to try.

  “Can’t we help him?” Austra asked.

  “Against a knight?” But even as she said it, Anne suddenly felt a strange dislocation, as
if she were two people—the Anne who had fearlessly ridden down the Sleeve, and the Anne who was starting to understand the consequences of life, who had just watched knights like this slaughter women as if they were barnyard beasts.

  Once, she had imagined adventures in which, dressed as a knight herself, she had triumphed over evil foes. Now all she could see was blood, and all she could imagine was her own head lifting from her shoulders in a spray of it.

  A few months ago she would have rushed to Cazio’s aid. Now her illusions were dying, and she was left with the world that was. And in that world, a woman did not stand against a knight.

  Austra gave her an odd look, one Anne didn’t recognize, as if her friend was a stranger she had only just met.

  The knight, meanwhile, lifted his sword over the fallen Cazio, who put up his own slender weapon in frail defense.

  “No!” Austra shrieked. Before Anne could think of stopping her, the younger girl ran forward, snatched up a stone, and threw it. It glanced from the knight’s armor, distracting him for a second. Austra kept running toward him.

  Anne grabbed a fallen branch, cursing. She couldn’t just watch Austra die.

  Austra tried to grab the warrior’s sword arm, but he cuffed her hard on the side of the head with a mailed fist. Cazio wobbled back to his feet, a little out of range, as Anne drew up and stood over her friend, stick in hand. The knight’s visor turned toward her.

  “Do not be foolish,” he said. Through the slits in his helm she saw contempt and moonlight reflected in his eyes, and a sudden dark fury raged through her. Her thoughts were whisper-winged owls, stooping on mice. How dare he, beneath the sickle moon? How dare he, in the very womb of night? He, who had violated the sacred soil of Cer and soaked it with the blood of her daughters? How dare he look at her in such a way?

  “Man,” Anne husked. “Man, do not look at me.” She didn’t recognize her own voice, so inert it seemed, so devoid of life, as if the dimness in her spilled out with her words.

  The light in the knight’s eyes vanished, though the moon was still there, though he had not turned his head. His breath caught, and rattled, and then he did turn his head, this way and that. He rubbed at those eyes, like two holes darker than moonshadow.